


All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter

by brilliantastic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Doomed Relationship, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, M/M, lovestruck teen dumbledore, this is too fluffy for one of the characters to be a future tyrant what am i doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 03:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8562727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantastic/pseuds/brilliantastic
Summary: It was the summer of 1899 * guitar solo *Young Albus Dumbledore is introduced to Gellert Grindelwald - they part ways only two months later after Ariana Dumbledore's death. Here's a little bit of what happened in between.





	

Albus sealed another letter and stared out the window. Objectively, it was a beautiful day, sun bright across the streets of Godric’s Hollow, green leaves of the trees fluttering in a cool breeze. But the house remained stifling in more ways than one.  
  
He leaned his head on his hand, auburn hair falling across his face. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine where he would be now, if things had gone as planned – Switzerland, maybe, conferring at magical research centres in the Alps; Italy, perhaps, observing the classical ruins; Ireland, even, discussing ancient Celtic wizarding rituals . . . but he remained here, in his childhood bedroom (Aberforth had insisted they not touch their mother’s room and why bother arguing, he wasn’t keen himself, didn’t want to look back). He ran his to-do list through his head – check on Ariana, walk down to the market in the lower village, perhaps Aberforth could do that – Albus roused himself and opened the cage where a handsome tawny owl slept. He woke her gently and tied on the letter. He clung to his correspondences; this was a setback, his family had to come first, that was only natural, but Aberforth would be finished with school in a couple of years and then he, Albus, could take his place amongst the best of the wizarding world. He opened the window and released the owl. She swooped away into the blue summer sky.  
  
The fresh air felt good against his face; he leaned out and looked down to the street. A flash of gold caught his eye – the hair of a young man he didn’t recognize, handsome and with an easy confidence to his stride, books tucked under his arm. Albus drew back, intrigued. There were few wizards his own age in the town, and rarely did anyone visit anymore that he didn’t recognize.  
  
A loud knock sounded against his bedroom door. Albus opened it to reveal Aberforth’s scowl. “You got an owl,” he said, and passed Albus a small scroll.  
  
Albus unrolled it and recognized the handwriting of Bathilda. The older woman down the road had been his one solace in the weeks since he returned to Godric’s Hollow – one of the most knowledgeable historians alive, she had been a mentor and friend of his for many years. _Dear Albus,_ the scroll read, _If you please, you are welcome to come by for tea this afternoon. My great-nephew has come to stay with me, and I think perhaps the two of you would get along. The kettle will be on at four o’clock._  
  
Her great-nephew . . . Albus thought of the golden-haired boy on the street. It must be, surely – he checked his watch. It was already past three. “Aberforth,” he said, eyes still on the page, “you wouldn’t mind buying some bread, would you?”  
  
“Already did. We’d all starve if I left it to you.” Aberforth slammed the door, and Albus could hear his footsteps clatter back down the stairs. But his brother was just upset about their mother’s death, it was difficult for all of them, and Aberforth had spent more time at home, he had been closer to her, it was only natural – Albus put it out of his mind. Without thinking about it, he moved towards the curly-edged mirror on the wall and smoothed his hair back, tied it into a ponytail, adjusted his robes. He’d rolled up the sleeves against the heat – he rolled them back down, best to look put together, if only to be polite. He reorganized the papers on his desk and watched the clock.

 

Albus knocked on Bathilda’s door at a quarter to four. She opened it, beaming. Short and stout, her hair tied back, she had an air of domesticity that left her brilliance to be revealed only on more acute observation – her bright eyes, her well-organized bookshelves, her knack for clever conversation. She ushered him in. “Albus, I’m so glad you could make it. Gellert just got in yesterday and already he’s restless, wandering all over town, but he should be back any minute. You young people, can hardly stay still a moment, can you? Sit, sit.”  
  
Albus took his usual seat in the smaller armchair in the sitting room with a wry grin at Bathilda’s busy energy. She returned a moment later with a teapot and a tray of biscuits levitating in front of her, and sat in her own favourite chair, a plump red one. The tea poured itself and Albus took a cup. “Gellert is your nephew then?” he said.  
  
“Yes, yes, my great-nephew. Just a little younger than you, lives with my sister’s son in Budapest. But he’s always been a traveller, him.” She sipped her tea. “Went to Durmstrang, until he was expelled – he says it was a misunderstanding, though –” Her expression flickered for a moment, but then there came the sound of footsteps approaching, and she brightened. “Ah, that will be him now!”  
  
Albus looked towards the door, and saw, sure enough, the golden-haired young man swing through the door. He was tall and thin, hair falling into his face. He grinned and pushed it back, and set the books he was carrying aside. “This your little friend, Auntie?” he said. He put out a hand. “Gellert Grindelwald.”  
  
Albus took his hand and shook. “Albus Dumbledore.” Grindelwald was handsome to the point of being disorienting up close; Albus rearranged his thoughts. No doubt this boy had little in common with him, especially as he had not even completed his education – he craned to see the books Gellert had been carrying, but Gellert swept in front of the stack and took a handful of biscuits, then flopped down on the couch and put his feet up.  
  
“Heard you were a Hogwarts boy,” he said, and nibbled at a biscuit.  
  
Albus nodded and sipped his tea.  
  
“Suppose Auntie has already told you my whole life story. I hope you don’t think too poorly of me – organized education isn’t for everyone, you know. I daresay I’ve learned more in the past year than I ever did in the six years before.”  
  
Something about the arrogant sprawl of Grindelwald across the sofa made it hard to look away. “What about?”  
  
Gellert waved a hand. “Oh, all manner of things. Those strange tidbits of wizarding history – I had a most enchanting time studying runes in Spain –”  
  
“Oh, Albus planned a whole tour of Europe, didn’t you, dear?” said Bathilda. “Such a shame –”  
  
Albus forced a smile. “Perhaps in a few years. I’m sure it will still be there waiting.”  
  
But Gellert seemed, thankfully, disinterested in Albus’ failed plans. “I’ve been particularly interested in wandlore recently. Auntie here’s been telling me all sorts of stories, the history is fascinating –” And he launched into the highlights at once, a mile-a-minute did-you-know of cores and woods.  
  
Perhaps it was a loneliness Albus had not admitted had plagued him since leaving school, the increased isolation as he remained trapped in the tiny village, but he was captivated. Grindelwald was undeniably clever, and as the day wore on Albus felt sharp and alert in a way he hadn’t in some time – letters could not match the blur of lively conversation. Bathilda had stepped out some time ago to answer an owl, and now, leaned against the couch where Gellert still sprawled, biscuits decimated and tea gone cold, Albus finally noticed the sun sinking and groaned.  
  
“I should go, my brother will be furious if he’s stuck making dinner again.”  
  
Gellert sighed, orange sunlight gleaming off his hair. “The call of responsibility. How noble.” He examined his hands. “I’m going walking tonight. Around midnight. Could use another keen mind along. You could meet me by the cemetery, if you’d like.”  
  
Albus nearly questioned the time, the place. But Gellert shot him a bright smile and he the protests died on his lips. “I’ll be there.” 

 

Aberforth had been angry as expected, so Albus took Ariana’s dinner to her in the basement. She was quiet today, head bowed. He set the plate beside her and sat down. He watched her, the shaky rise and fall of her chest. But she did not look up. Eventually, he ran a hand through her hair, long and tangled. She shivered, and the plate rattled.  
  
“Sleep well,” Albus said, low, and went back upstairs.  
  
No thought of sleep for himself crossed his mind as he waited for midnight; he had never felt so awake. He polished his wand and thought of the earlier conversation. _Phoenix feather,_ Gellert had said, _that’s a special one, traditionally associated with the true-hearted, the brave and loyal – goody two-shoes, are you?_  
  
_What’s yours, then?_  
  
_Dragon heartstring, of course._  
  
And so it had gone on. Albus watched the clock, and at midnight, apparated out to the road by the cemetery. He had half-suspected it was a trick, but Grindelwald was there, leaning on the wrought iron gate, dressed in black and silver. “Albus,” he said, and opened the gate. “After you.”  
  
They walked, silent, between the graves. Gellert appeared to be looking for something, eyes downcast. Deeper and deeper in they wound, between the shadowy trees. Abruptly he stopped. “Aha!” He crouched down, and tapped on an ancient headstone, and the grime lifted. He lit his wand and the name was revealed – Ignotus Peverell. “Would you look at that,” he murmured.  
  
Albus crouched down beside him, unsure what was so intriguing. Gellert must have noticed; a smile lit his face and he nudged Albus’ arm, pointed to a triangular symbol below the name.  
  
“Albus, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Deathly Hallows.”  
  
“The legend, perhaps –”  
  
Grindelwald shook his head. “Far more than that.” He sat on another stone, eyes still on Peverell’s grave. He put out the light and gestured for Albus to sit next to him. And there in the cemetery, he told his most captivating story yet.

 

It took no more than a few days for Albus to become entirely obsessed with Gellert Grindelwald. Never had he met someone with such extraordinary ambitions, such knowledge – the idea of the Hallows consumed his dreams. With the stone, he could return his mother and be free – at times he was ashamed of that dream, but he was young, wasn’t he, destined for greatness, surely he deserved to be free – and then, with Grindelwald at his side with the Elder Wand he sought, they could do anything, both brilliant, destined to reshape the world as it lay, and brought together so perfectly it could not be mere chance – Albus could hardly sleep, so limitless was the fuel for the imagination. There were times, he admitted, that the gleam in Gellert’s eyes seemed not entirely safe, his plans reaching a little too far – but that was why they were both needed, a team, for the greater good, Grindelwald seeking greatness and Albus, good. It was so easy to believe him, when he said that it was all for the greater good.  
  
They sat out on a hilltop one afternoon in late July, sun melting down, the town spread out below. Gellert laid back, golden hair sprawled around his face like a halo, eyes shut. Albus untied his own long hair and leaned back on his hands. Auburn strands drifted in the wind.  
  
Gellert blinked up at him and grinned. “You look like you’re on fire, with the light behind you like that.”  
  
Albus smiled wryly. “I ought to cut it off. Your aunt certainly thinks so.”  
  
Gellert pushed his own hair back from his forehead. “Don’t.”  
  
Was it the smooth cheekbones, the sharp nose, the bright eyes, that made it so hard to look away? Albus fell back, looked up at the sky.  
  
There was a silence, and then, casual, as if by accident, Gellert moved a hand from behind his head and laid it across Albus’ hand at his side, closed their fingers together. “If I found the stone,” said Grindelwald, “and brought it back to you, so you could leave. Where would you want to go first, you and I?”  
  
Albus was acutely aware of their hands entwined, and the answer seemed limitless and unimportant. “Wherever you want.”

 

In school, Albus had avoided thinking of romance, had sensed a difference not worth considering and focused on his studies instead. But now, when the intellectual and the beautiful were so perfectly combined, how could he ignore it? It seemed to physically hurt to be apart from Gellert – who else was worth speaking to, what else worth admiring? Any doubts he had, about the other’s suspicious expulsion, the way he spoke of muggles, anything, were overwhelmed by a golden sort of euphoria.  
  
He doubted anyone suspected the extent of their relationship, except perhaps Bathilda, who always seemed to know more than she let on. She’d brought them biscuits in her yard one afternoon, as they pored over books at a wooden table. “Such handsome young men, you’ll let me take a photo, won’t you? I feel I deserve some credit, creating such a pair.”  
  
Grindelwald had shook his head, golden hair flashing. “You’re embarrassing me, Auntie.” But he’d slung an arm across Albus’s shoulder, and Albus had whispered a joke to him at the last moment, so that his merry laugh could be immortalized forever, a snatch of that ecstatic spirit.  
  
And it had been in Gellert’s room in Bathilda’s attic, by candlelight late one nice, that Albus had come across a lead on the Elder Wand, another pair of hands it had passed through mere centuries ago.  
  
“Brilliant!” Gellert had exclaimed, and taken Albus’s face in his hands, and then his attention was diverted, finger tracing the high cheekbones, and Albus couldn’t help it, he kissed him, pressed him against the floor. And against what still seemed like all odds, Gellert laughed, cheeks pink, and pulled him closer. And when, much later, Albus stirred as if to leave, that golden boy held him there. “Stay.”  
  
So he stayed, and they lay half-asleep through the night, still whispering plans.  
  
But as summer wore on, Grindelwald got impatient; Albus could see it, feel it tight in his chest. He had gotten what he came for and already stayed longer than he meant to.  
  
“We could go,” Gellert said, running his hand through Albus’s hair as they leaned on the tree on the hilltop. “Your brother can take care of himself, we could take your sister along if we have to, she’s no trouble –”  
  
But though he wanted desperately to believe it, the scrap of Albus that remained rational knew it wasn’t true. But he kept his eyes shut and nodded. And more and more often he lay awake, no longer dreaming, but searching desperately for a solution. No one had heard of the stone for centuries, there had to be something else in the meantime, some other way –  
  
Aberforth, too, grew more and more restive. And in the end it all went wrong.  
  
It was one of Ariana’s bad days; Aberforth had been minding her, and he cut Albus and Gellert off at the door. They had come up with a new spell to try, had spent the night in Albus’s room perfecting the theory. But Aberforth would not let them past.  
  
“Enough,” he growled. “She’s your sister too, stop ignoring her like this, I know you could help her, but instead you go prancing around with him –”  
  
“Aberforth, I’m only –”  
  
“You think I don’t hear you two talk? You can’t drag her off on your stupid adventures, you know it’d set her off, she needs you, Albus –”  
  
But Grindelwald, impatient and with the glint in his eyes that Albus always tried to ignore, had had enough. He flicked his wand and Aberforth flew against the wall. He strode towards the door, but in a flash Aberforth was back on his feet. He shot a curse at Grindelwald that he deflected in a blink, and Albus threw a shield charm between them, but that too, Grindelwald deflected.  
  
“Stop! Aberforth, we can stay here for the afternoon –”  
  
Aberforth turned his wand on Albus then. “That’s not the point! You don’t care about us, only about _him_ , you –”  
  
Anger rose in Albus and without thinking he shot a bolt of violet light at his brother, just to silence him, he didn’t want to hear this, he didn’t want to think this, but Aberforth, unexpectedly quick, deflected the curse. Then it seemed like everything began to happen at once and he didn’t know who was fighting who, and below the flying lights he caught a glimpse of a thin face. Ariana had followed Aberforth up from the basement, and her eyes went wide as she saw the curses gouging the walls. Albus saw her too late; she had her mouth open already, she covered her face and screamed and like a wave it knocked them over. They scrambled up, but the air seemed warped, everything confused, Ariana’s eyes wide and black, and there was a flash of light —  
  
And then, all at once, everything was quiet. Albus blinked, frozen. Aberforth was the first to understand, to see Ariana’s body limp and small on the hallway floor. He kneeled down next to her, tried to shake her awake, Albus and Gellert both still standing, wands raised. But she was dead – Albus could almost feel it, as if it had changed the colour of the air – he met Gellert’s eyes for a moment, and they were terrified but also tinged with something he did not recognize. Grindelwald half-opened his mouth – to apologize, to say goodbye, it didn’t matter, he only stared at Albus for a moment longer, and then he twisted on his heel and was gone, disapparated.  
  
Albus sank to the ground across from his brother, and stared at Ariana’s now-blank face. He touched her wrist. No pulse. He looked at Aberforth, but what could he say? That he was sorry, that it was his fault – it couldn’t be his fault – “I didn’t –” he started, but Aberforth did not meet his brother’s eyes. He covered his face and cried.

 

It was as if the energy of the past two months had all been stolen from the weeks that followed, Albus’s mind blank with grief. Gellert had vanished; he was already gone along with all of his things when Albus sought him out that evening. Aberforth would not speak to him; Albus, head of the family, was in charge of the funeral, and like a Dementor-kissed shell he moved through the motions. All my fault all my fault all my fault.  
  
At the funeral he put on his most composed face, kept his hands from shaking as he made the memorial speech. But it was too much for Aberforth; he leapt from his seat and shoved Albus away from the podium.  
  
“Don’t talk like you cared about her!” he bellowed. “If you cared you wouldn’t have neglected her, you wouldn’t have spent so much time with him, with that muggle-hating, arrogant, obnoxious —” His words ran together and Albus stood and took it, what could he say, it was his fault, he knew, he knew, and the composure split and he started to cry.  
  
Aberforth’s face contorted. “You have no _right!_ ” And his fist smashed Albus’s nose. For a moment they stared at each other, blood dripping down Albus’s chin. Then Aberforth turned on his heel and ran.  
  
Someone else, an uncle, took over the service. Albus excused himself and stood outside the hall, wiped blood and tears from his face. He could have mended his nose, cleaned himself up, pretended it never happened. But somehow, the throb through his face comforted him; it felt deserved, and if anything, he wanted to hurt more. With Ariana cold in the coffin on the other side of the wall, he was finally free, but he had never been less happy. The sun hid behind thick grey cloud and in the same way he tried to push Grindelwald’s golden laugh from his mind, tried not to wonder where he had gone, where his quest would take him next. There was no good in it, he was sure of that now.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway .......... the moral of the story is don't f*** with racists? even if they're cute? thanks for reading


End file.
